


In The Beginning

by veronamay



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Dean Feels, Drunken Confessions, M/M, Oblivious Sam, Pining, Pre-Slash, Time Skips
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2007-01-18
Updated: 2007-12-18
Packaged: 2018-01-12 15:50:52
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 4,205
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1190838
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/veronamay/pseuds/veronamay
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>Timestamp requested by drvsilla.</p>
          </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

Dean sits outside Sam's dorm room for fifteen minutes debating whether or not to go in. It's cold out, raining, which is seriously taking the edge off his post-job buzz. Not to mention the fact that he's nervous as hell about walking across the street to see if his little brother's at home. Which is just ... _stupid_ , but that's how things tend to go with Sam these days.

He hasn't seen Sam since the barhopping visit at Thanksgiving, when Dean did his best to get him so drunk he'd sing in public. He'd managed the drunk bit okay, but Sam had a sixth sense about karaoke bars or something, because he refused to go inside every one on Dean's list. It was kind of spooky.

That was the night Sam told him to stop checking in every week, that he was fine, he didn't need Dean looking over his shoulder all the damn time. Dean remembers that part very clearly. And now he's sitting in his car with the engine running, burning gas for no reason, feeling like an idiot.

He's probably out. It's Saturday night, for crying out loud.

_Yeah, right. Sam's at a kegger, smoking up and getting blown by a hot blonde mathlete in some frat boy's bathroom. Gimme a break._

He should call first. See if Sam's busy.

_What are you, twelve? Get your ass in there, bitch. It's your goddamn birthday, you just finished your first job without Dad, you kicked ass doing it, and you're entitled to rock up to your brother's door and demand beer._

" _Fine_ ," he says aloud, startling himself, then rolling his eyes. It's just Sam, for God's sake. What's he gonna do, slam the door in Dean's face? Wouldn't be the first time.

"Okay. Okay. _Dammit_."

He gets out of the car, scrapes a hand through his hair and scuffs his boots all the way up the path to the dorm building. He hopes the door isn't locked; he lost his picks two weeks ago and hasn't had a chance to replace them yet.

The door's open – must be before curfew still – and Dean slides through sideways, hugging the wall, before he can change his mind. Sam's room is on the third floor, at the back of the building. Dean heads upstairs, taking note of the quiet. Looks like Stanford knows how to party.

Of course, there's a light shining under Sam's door. Dean smirks. It figures.

"Sammy!"

Silence. He pounds on the door.

"Hey, Sammy! Open up."

"... Dean?"

"Yeah, Sam, it's me. Open the door and say happy birthday to the most awesome brother on the planet. Twenty-five, man. It's a milestone. Gotta celebrate."

He doesn't want to mention his hunt just yet. It's too early to gloat. Besides, he wants to savour the feeling for a little while longer. It was only a poltergeist, true, but she was a _nasty_ old bitch, and he dispersed her ass good. Dad couldn't have done any better.

The door opens, Sam filling the space behind it. He looks confused for a second, like he can't believe what he's seeing. When recognition hits, he frowns, and Dean's mood fizzles even further.

"Dude, what are you doing here? I've got someone-- I'm trying to study here, Dean."

"Gee, thanks, bro. Those are some heartfelt birthday wishes right there."

"Sorry. I'm sorry. Happy birthday, man, really. I just ... I don't have time for – whatever it is you want me to do. Classes just started again and I've got a ton of reading--"

Dean blinks. "What, I gotta make an appointment now?"

Sam runs a hand through his hair and sighs heavily.

"No, of course not, but Dean, I don't have _time_ \--"

"... right. Okay. Forget it." Dean turns on his heel and starts to walk away, clenching his jaw. Next time he's not getting out of the damn car.

"Dean, come on, I didn't mean it like—"

Dean can hear the irritation in Sam's tone, and he knows it's a mistake, but he's heard that tone one too many times and tonight of all nights, he can't take it. He turns around and takes three steps into Sam's space, barely a hand's breadth between them.

"No, _you_ come on, Sammy," he growls. "You wanted to go to college; I backed you up. You didn't want me coming out here every weekend; I said fine. You don't want me to talk to Dad about you; I haven't. I don't know what else I could do for you without opening a fucking vein. But you've gotta give something back, man. I need something from _you_."

Sam stares at him; Dean realises he's so riled up he's almost panting, and tries to control himself. This isn't what he wanted to do tonight. He doesn't want to fight; he wants to kick back, catch up, let himself enjoy being with Sam for once. He thought he had this under control.

"--the fuck?" Sam's scowling, his tone dripping sarcasm. "You don't need anything. You never need anything. What could you possibly _need_ from me, Dean?"

* * *

In his head, when he blurts out _Fuck me, Sammy_ , Sam draws closer, reaching out with love and heat and lust and need; he's drawing Dean in and holding him so tight Dean can't breathe and doesn't want to, not if it means he has to let this go.

* * *

Sam's fucking him.

Sam's fucking him, and it's been a hell of a long time coming, but Dean can't think of that right now. He can't think about the years of denial, the mistakes and avoidance and tension and flat-out _rage_ that's brought him to this. Sam is pressing Dean into the bed, sweeping pages of notes and textbooks to the floor, pushing inside him ... and it hurts, but it's so good and it's all Dean's wanted for the past two years ( _longer_ ) and he never wants it to stop.

Eventually, it does stop. Sam's got stamina, and he proves it by fucking Dean through the mattress, to the point where Dean's lost in it, moaning and incoherent and making fists in Sam's hair and the bedsheets, anything he can grab, whispering Sam's name because he's got no breath to scream it. But there comes a point where Sam's rhythm falters and becomes disjointed, his breathing quickens and he pounds into Dean again, again, again and starts to shake like he's coming apart. Dean wraps his legs around Sam's back, his hips jerking up, trying to keep Sam inside, keep him close. He's not thinking about his own orgasm; he just wants to watch Sam, feel Sam, and it's a complete surprise when he's overtaken by a rush so huge he stops breathing. It rockets through him from ass to feet to fingertips, shivering over every nerve ending, leaving him collapsed under Sam's quivering body.

Dean can't feel his legs. He knows they're still wrapped around Sam's back, but it freaks him out a little because that's never happened before. Then again, he's never been fucked in the ass before either. He didn't know it was possible to come like that. He doesn't particularly want to think about it right now. He doesn't want to do anything but lie here on this ridiculous narrow bed and breathe and not think about anything at all.

* * *

That's how it is in his head.

Reality is ... somewhat different.

* * *

Dean can't breathe. Sam's not reaching for him; he's backing away with this look in his eyes that ... and he's saying, _Dean, no, what the hell is wrong with you?_ and that's not how this is supposed to happen. Sam starts yelling about some chick he's just met, and how his life here is finally working, and why did Dean have to start fucking with him now, just when he's starting to feel normal? Why can't he just let Sam be, give him space, for Christ's sake, and a lot of other shit that Dean stops listening to because his heart's thumping so hard he can't hear.

"Space," he says. "Okay. Fine."

So he leaves, and he holds out for two years, and the silence is nearly killing him by the time he finds an excuse to go back.

* * *

It's dark inside the club, and noisy, and full of college kids running around in Halloween costumes. Some of them scare Dean more than any monster he's hunted yet – hell, some of the _monsters_ would be scared of these freaks. So he's a little distracted, and he doesn't notice at first when Sam walks in.

At least, he thinks it's Sam. The guy's tall enough, and he walks like Sam does – but Jesus, he's _huge_. Dean can't get a good look at his face for a few minutes, so he can't say for sure, and he's thinking about moving out of his corner position when the guy turns around, laughing, and recognition hits Dean like a punch to the gut.

Sam's hair is longer; his face has lost the last vestiges of childhood softness and is harder, more angular. His shoulders look wide enough to rappel. Dean stares, wondering if he could take him in an actual fight.

Maybe, he decides, chewing on his thumbnail, eyes narrowed. If Sam's out of practice, then yeah, absolutely. No problem.

He doesn't think about how much he'd like the opportunity. He definitely doesn't acknowledge that he's planning on creating one.

Sam's still laughing, protesting when some guy hands him a shot, then downing it anyway, which is so many kinds of stupid Dean wants to strangle him right there. Sam doesn't seem to have a care in the world; he doesn't even seem to sense he's being watched, and not just by Dean. There are at least four girls pining over him that Dean can see, and he's not even really looking. But Sam's cheerfully oblivious to it all, and that worries him. It makes him wonder what else Sam's gotten sloppy about; if he's abandoned everything Dad taught them. If Dean's wasting his time by coming here.

On the other hand, it looks like Sam finally figured out what girls are. Dean sees him leaning in to kiss the hot blonde number at his table; she's wearing a naughty nurse outfit and a teasing smile, and Dean has to fight down equal surges of pride and shock when he sees Sam's hands on her. When they pull back, Sam's smiling, his dimples flashing, and Dean swallows hard.

Higher education. Ooh-rah.

Dean sits in his corner and nurses his double whiskey, pretending to sip while he keeps tabs on his brother, the suspicious bartender and the three guys eyeing him from different parts of the room. Of them all, Sam's the dangerous one, but he's apparently forgotten that.

Dean thinks it's time to remind him.

* * *

This is not how Dean imagined things would be. Granted, he's been avoiding imagining this moment altogether, so he can't say what he'd thought would happen when he showed up on Sam's doorstep again – okay, beyond his doorstep, whatever. But this act Sam's putting on is not at all what he expected. Sam's treating him pretty much like normal, all things considered, and while Dean's not stupid enough to think that goes any further than Sam's basic good manners in front of Jess, he also isn't going to do that thing with the horse's mouth. He forgets the exact proverb, but there's no way he'd ever get close enough to horse to figure it out anyway, so who cares? The important thing is, Sam's not throwing punches – not now the lights are on – and he's not throwing Dean out, so things could be worse.

He doesn't look too happy, though, and that's Dean's cue to start talking fast. He needs to get Sam away from Smurf Girl for this to work; while he admires Sam's taste, he's not going to forget this whole thing just because she's a babe. He called shotgun on Sam a long time ago.

It's easy to get Sam's attention. Almost too easy. They both know that Dad's been gone for this long before without checking in, and they definitely both know that Dean doesn't need Sam to find him. Okay, the EVP on the tape's a little iffy, but it's nothing that should get his shorts in a twist. But Dean asks, and Sam agrees, and if Dean wasn't so quietly relieved about getting a second chance he'd probably be suspicious.

* * *

They don't talk about it. The world would explode if they did, and Dean doesn't really want to become an involuntary intergalactic hitchhiker. He's read the book, thanks. He still thinks '42' is the stupidest thing ever.

Besides, the world's already exploded enough, and it's weeks before Sam talks about anything at all.

They dance around the subject as the months go by, under the surface, making comments with subtext so thick you could trip over it – especially when people take them for lovers. Dean knows it's probably more for his benefit than Sam's, because Sam always did like to _talk_ about stuff, so the fact that Sam's not in his face about it means something. It gives Dean hope and pisses him off at the same time, which is par for the course with Sam.

He just wishes none of this ever happened. It's not like he _wants_ to be in this situation; he's fucked up, but he's got no idea how or when things morphed from 'look out for Sammy' to 'lust after Sammy's ass'. Most of the time he can keep a lid on it. He's a grown man, he's got self-control even if he's been playing the horndog card for years to get under Sam's skin, and usually it's okay. He stays on his side of the room, his side of the car, his side of the booth – except for stealing fries, which is a totally acceptable breach of the rule. But every now and then he slips up. Not often; but he's human, and Sam finished growing up in the past couple years and Dean didn't get to see it.

So when Dean sees him walk out of the bathroom in that stupid flowered towel, wet and ripped and impossible to ignore, he can't help but look. Just for a second. He's half sorry about the itching powder.

When Sam doesn't react at all to being mostly-naked in front of him, Dean decides he's not sorry at all. He wants Sam to suffer. It's not the same kind of suffering, but it'll do.

* * *

A week later, in Ohio, when Dean comes back to their room with coffee and muffins, he finds Sam in front of the laptop, looking like he's been poked with a cattle prod. Dean hooks his leg around a chair and pulls it out, dropping breakfast on the table and pushing Sam's coffee toward him while flipping the lid off his own.

"What's up?" he asks, only half listening because six-thirty is way too early to be awake without either caffeine or alcohol in your bloodstream, and this is only his second cup.

Sam doesn't reply, doesn't even move, which Dean notices when he exchanges coffee for air.

"Sam?"

Sam jerks away from the laptop, flushing bright red when he sees Dean sitting there. Dean raises an eyebrow and drinks more coffee, knowing Sam will expect him to ask.

"How long have you been sitting there?" Sam says, fumbling with his own coffee.

The lid flies off the cup and halfway across the room, and hot liquid spills over Sam's hand, making him hiss and flail. Dean dodges away and reaches for a muffin. Chocolate chip. It's his favourite.

"Long enough," Dean replies, and enjoys the dismay on Sam's face. "Don't worry, little brother, I'm not gonna pry. A man's got a right to his privacy."

"I wasn't _doing_ anything, Dean!" Sam splutters, trying to mop up coffee and shut down the laptop at the same time, and since he hasn't actually had any coffee yet his co-ordination sucks. Dean leans back in his chair and smothers a grin. Whatever Sam was doing, it's got major mindfuck potential, so Dean approves just on principle.

"Whatever." Dean shrugs and eats his muffin, savouring the chocolate chips that are actually real chocolate and not that crappy cooking shit they usually stick in these things. Dean's chocolate-sense is very acute; he can always tell the difference.

"You're an ass, you know that?" Sam pouts into his vanilla latte.

"It's a dirty job, but someone's gotta do it."

"No, Dean, not really."

Sam's not paying attention to the conversation. He's looking at Dean with a certain intensity that Dean's never witnessed before, and it's making him a little nervous. He's pretty sure he remembered to delete all those porn vids from the hard drive – but how long's it been since he cleared the browser cache? The guy in that one thing didn't look all that much like Sam in broad daylight, but it was enough for Dean to notice, and ...

"What?" he snaps, and Sam flinches back a bit. "Did I grow an extra head or something?"

"I'm not sure," Sam murmurs, then flushes again. He shoves away from the table and brushes past Dean toward the bathroom. "I'm taking a shower."

"You are so weird."

Dean shakes his head, stuffing the muffin wrapper inside his empty coffee cup. The second he hears the bathroom door close, he's out of his chair and sitting in front of the laptop, and bless Sam's lack of dexterity before caffeine because he didn't shut down the computer properly; he only managed to minimise the programs he had open. Dean scans the desktop for a moment – weapons and ammo inventory, credit card cycle reminders, email--

Oh, hell. Oh, _crap_.

He'd forgotten about those.

* * *

From: Dean <dwinchester79@gmail.com>  
To: Sam <samwinchester@stanford.edu>  
Date: 02-May-2005 22:37  
Subject: boo

Hey, Sammy. Happy birthday.

I miss you.

Wish you were here.

Okay, enough Hallmark moments. I'm not that drunk. Have a good one, bro.

Dean

* * *

From: Dean <dwinchester79@gmail.com>  
To: Sam <samwinchester@stanford.edu>  
Date: 16-Jul-2005 14:23  
Subject: Avon calling

Dude, are you trapped under a pile of textbooks or something? Drop me a line, Sammy.

Don't make me come out there.

Dean

* * *

From: Dean <dwinchester79@gmail.com>  
To: Sam <samwinchester@stanford.edu>  
Date: 24-Sep-2005 01:50  
Subject: enough

Okay, I've had it with the silent treatment, Sammy. I've left you alone for over a year, right? Given you your damned space. But you've got to let me and Dad know you're okay. Or just Dad, if you want. Whatever.

Look. I'm sorry about the thing that night, okay? I was drunk. I didn't remember what I said until later. Had a bitch of a hangover. The upholstery in my car will never be the same.

Okay, no, that's not true. I wasn't drunk. Things just got a little weird in my head. But it's okay. I'm okay now.

I can't take this silence much longer, Sam. If I don't hear back from you in a couple days, I'm coming out there. Call me. Email me. Do something.

Dean

* * *

From: Dean <dwinchester79@gmail.com>  
To: Sam <samwinchester@stanford.edu>  
Date: 18-Oct-2005 20:46  
Subject: (no subject)

sammy, remember when you were sxteen and you kissed a girl for the first time? You went somewhere, a party, I forget and you came home late and you wouldn't tell dad what you'd been doing. You told me thought, after lights out you snuck into my room and sat on the bed and told me. Jennifer. Someone's cousin. You whispered t me in the dark and it was like when you were a kid and you'd have a bad dream, but you were almost grown and wet dreams aren't bad dream and I hated her for being first.

That was the only time I ever thought about it Sam, I swear. That's it. Until last year, until now but dont worry I'm fine it'll be fine.

* * *

They sit there in his Sent folder in Thunderbird, four emails he's never had the heart to delete. He remembers writing them, except for the last one. He remembers being tired and hurting and a little too drunk to be rational, and he remembers being pissed as hell that Sam didn't bother to send even a one-line reply to let Dean know he was okay. It wasn't until he saw Sam checking his email on his cell that he realised his Stanford email address must have changed. Then he just feels like an idiot for not picking up the phone and _calling_.

Sam doesn't say anything about it when he comes back out of the bathroom. He doesn't say anything at all, just gets dressed and dries off his hair, pushing it back with his fingers to dry. But he doesn't argue when Dean suggests they check out a possible haunting in Indiana that has nothing to do with finding Dad; and when they leave the motel room with their gear, heading for the Impala, Sam's shoulder brushes Dean's and he doesn't pull away.

END


	2. One month later

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Timestamp requested by drvsilla.

Sam starts acting weird about a week later. Dean sees it happening, but he doesn't know how to say anything without giving himself away so he tries to ignore Sam's staring. And brooding. And more staring, until Dean thinks he's going to go right off the rails. He's desperate to know what Sam's thinking, but he's scared to find out. He can't take more than one epic rejection in this lifetime, thanks.

Days pass, and Sam doesn't say anything, doesn't do anything. Doesn't refer to the subject at all, although Dean knows he's thinking about it. Sam just keeps watching him, chewing his fingernails, eyes narrowed in a way that gets Dean really freaking hot. Whatever he's thinking, Sam hasn't flipped out, and he hasn't left. That's pretty much all Dean's holding onto right now.

They check out a series of bizarre deaths in Alabama and kill a black dog in Kentucky. Sam's nails become ragged stumps and Dean takes to chewing gum twenty-four-seven so he doesn't say anything stupid. Neither of them are sleeping very well, and it's not just because of Sam's visions.

Finally, twenty-nine days after Sam's discovery of Dean's inner lovesick angst, it stops. They're somewhere in Arizona, on a deserted back road that barely qualifies as blacktop. Sam's driving, and for once he's got something decent on the stereo. Dean's sprawled in the passenger seat, jacket bunched up against the window, dozing and humming quietly along to Black Sabbath, and he feels ... okay.

Then Sam pulls up sharply on the shoulder, puts the car in neutral and makes an awkward, clumsy grab for him.

"Fuck this," is all Dean hears; next thing he knows Sam's half on top of him, hair in his face and wet mouth seeking his, and Dean's torn between _oh God, thank you_ and _wait, did he put the handbrake on?_

" _Fuck_ you, Dean," Sam's saying, scrabbling at his shirt to get to skin, biting his neck, and Dean forgets about the fucking handbrake, the whole fucking car. He grabs on to Sam's head and drags him up, and Sam whines into his mouth, tongue already searching for Dean's.

Apparently, Sam really likes kissing. And he really likes kissing Dean.

Dean has this revelation in stages, as he pets Sam in all the places he can reach and licks at his neck and hands and ears, and Sam keeps bringing him back to seal their mouths together. Dean can work with that—God, can he ever—so he puts his hands on Sam's neck and just stays there, trading soft, hot, wet, sleek, hard, slow kisses for what feels like days. They part for breath every now and then, shallow pants of the same air until Sam dives for his mouth again. Dean opens up and takes it, soaking in Sam, heart pounding and so much love in his gut he can feel his eyes watering. Sam doesn't even pause, just thumbs the tears away and keeps on kissing, and when they finally break apart Dean feels limp and heavy and used, and so turned on he can't see straight. His mouth is tender; he bites down on his lip and a shiver runs through him. Sam, still watching him, flushes bright red.

"So, uh," Dean begins, clearing his throat. "Motel?"

"Soon," Sam says, flashing him a grin. "I'm kinda working my way up to it."

"Okay," Dean agrees immediately, because damned if he's gonna jinx himself now, and it's not like taking things slow is a hardship if this is any example. Considering the alternative, and all. "You just ... whatever you wanna do, Sam."

"Really." Sam's grin turns wicked. "How long since you ran all the bases, Dean?"

"Oh, you fucker," Dean groans, but he's smiling so hard his face aches, and there's a light, nervous zing in his blood he hasn't felt in years. Sam's pulling back onto the highway and Ted Nugent's singing about cat scratch fever, and it's gonna be a long, hard, hot, frustrating day.

 _Awesome_ , Dean thinks, and wonders if he can steal second.

END


End file.
